Echo (The Soul Seekers 2)

The one where Cade turned into a monster, stole her soul, and left her lying dead in my arms.

It’s a dream I’ve dreamed too many times.

I drive my knuckles hard against my eyes in a failed attempt to stop them from burning—the direct result of a night spent in torment. Every time I tried to sleep, images of Daire swam in my head. Her eyes gazing at me—trusting me, loving me, giving herself in a way that frightened her more than me.

I was sure it was just the beginning.

Sure that our love could only grow from there.

I’d never felt happier, never felt more fulfilled than I did lying beside her. Vowing to dedicate the rest of my life to making her as contented as I was.

It was a promise I intended to keep.

Still do.

Our separation is temporary. A bitter necessity. It’s what I have to do to keep her safe until I can find a way to deal with Cade.

And though every last bit of it’s true—it leaves me no comfort.

Five minutes without her is unbearable.

A lifetime is completely unthinkable.

But while I can’t risk going near her just yet, can’t afford to even think about her without enabling Cade, I will find a way to end this. I’ve no choice. That recurring dream where she dies in my arms is hardly coincidence. It’s a prophecy. There’s no doubt in my mind.

A prophecy I plan to stop no matter the cost.

There’s no way I’ll stand by and watch as Daire dies. If anyone ends up dead, it’ll be Cade. And if not Cade, then I’ll gladly take his place. If I do nothing else with my ill-conceived existence, I’ll make sure Daire goes unharmed.

I yank hard on the wheel—this ancient heap of rust and metal predates power steering by a decade. About to pull onto the street, when Daire’s grandmother comes through the painted blue gate and looks right at me.

“Although I’ve long suspected, I couldn’t be sure until now.” Her voice is light and breathy, as though returning to a prior conversation I don’t remember having. Confusing me further when she adds, “I’m so sorry.”

I shrug. Rub my thumb over the wheel. There’s a lot to be sorry for lately, but my guess is she’s referring to my broken relationship with Daire.

“You are better than the circumstances of your birth,” she says.

Oh. That.

“You must strive to rise above it. You hold the potential for greatness. You must never forget that.”

She studies me, while I study my hands, unsure how to respond.

“Whatever you do, please don’t beat yourself up. Your mother has

indulged in enough self-recrimination for both of you, don’t you think?”

I meet her gaze, wondering how she does it—how any of the elders do it. Paloma, Leftfoot, Chepi, and Chay—how do they remain so hopeful and optimistic in a world overflowing with pain?

“Because we have no choice.” She smiles faintly, answering the thoughts in my head. “There will always be light and dark. How would we recognize one if not for the existence of the other?”

I hold her gaze, knowing I have her full understanding and support. But too overcome by the shame of her knowing what I am—how I came to be, the hideous truth no one bothered to tell me—to appreciate the look of compassion she gives me.

“You must fight the urge to fight fire with fire—no good will come of that. You must lean on your inner goodness and light.” She pats my arm for emphasis, her touch brief, fleeting, but comforting all the same.

Then she steps away from the truck, pulls her cardigan tightly around her, and waves me away. The troubled look on her face blunted by the swirl of dust I stir in my wake.

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